


Bury Your Sins (The Six Foot Rule)

by phalangine



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Vigilantes, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cerebro did not only give Charles his sister. It also gave him, for better or worse, Erik. (AU where Charles and Raven are vigilantes, and Erik is the mob boss who sometimes helps them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Your Sins (The Six Foot Rule)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a throwaway line with a secondary-ish character from Person of Interest- which this is an AU of, because I've always wanted that. I have, like, twenty WIPs in this 'verse alone... If you aren't familiar with the show, you ought to be fine, though if you ever decide to watch it, this fic spoils a number of early plot twists. Eep.

"Charles." Mystique’s fingers wrap tightly around his wrist. "You can't do this."

She means it as a command, intends to enforce it as one- in her worn combat boots, with her hair braided tightly against her skull, the differences between them fall to her favor. Charles bites back the instinctive urge to jerk away. He knows the years have not been kind to either of them. Raven's life made her bigger, stronger, where Charles grew smaller, cannier. She can shimmy past security cameras as easily as he can find the holes in firewalls.

Hank once bridged the space between them. In his place are constant reminders of how easily Mystique can overpower Charles, how easily he can undercut her. There is no avoiding the knowledge that there is no balance between them. When they fight, the winner is decided before they ever collide, but that only makes them fight each other harder.

Charles is careful as he pries himself free of Mystique's grasp. He doesn’t want to fight this time. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life tip-toeing around this black-clad assassin who looks like his sister.

He doesn’t want anyone else to die.

“I can,” he reminds her, “and I have to. I'll see you tomorrow, when we have a chance at saving the Prydes without getting killed in the process.”

She lets him leave because she knows they’re out of options. Not because she trusts him.

 

**×××**

 

The Machine isn’t Hank, but as his final invention, it’s the closest they have to him. It brought Mystique and Charles back together, then gave them a reason to stay that way. Some days, Charles resents that. He loves his sister, but they aren’t children anymore. Raven made her choice when she hit eighteen, just as Charles made his. More often than not, he thinks of the time they only saw each other once or twice a year and wishes they could go back.

Then he remembers Hank. This is what he wanted: Charles and Raven, together. Except, of course, that’s not quite right. It was supposed to be Charles, Raven, and Hank, the three of them working side by side. If only Charles had listened to his friend, if Raven had only been careful enough not to break Hank’s heart the way she had, if only Hank had had the guts to stand up to Charles…

None of them did. Reality demands that Charles Cabrini and Mystique work together.

Without Hank, their third member is the Machine.

**×××**

 

Calling it the Machine is misleading. It isn’t a single entity.

It’s every machine. Every collected keystroke, every saved location, every browsing history, and every cache, and every cookie. It exists in every GPS and every SIM. It is beyond private browsing. With the proper instructions, it can match Tor and win.

ThinThread was only the beginning. Trailblazer was child’s play.

Cerebro, as Hank called it, lords above it all. This terrible machine sees everything.

If Thomas Drake only knew.

**×××**

 

Cerebro did not only give Charles his sister. It also gave him, for better or worse, Erik.

**×××**

 

It’s usually worse.

 

**×××**

 

Even in the dark, the house- if it can be called that- is clearly in shambles. It has the look of an opium den rather than New York City’s kingpin. It doesn’t have a ramp, no hand rail, not even proper stairs. Just a few rickety steps made of rotting wood. He can almost hear them calling out to him. _Come here, Charles. Come here, and break your hip_. For a terrible moment, Charles actually debates attempting to climb them.

Almost immediately, he discards the idea. He would rather not return to the wheelchair already.

He's half convinced himself to repurpose the obvious but conveniently placed fake rock key holder and knock in a window when a hand settles between his shoulders. He stiffens at the touch but doesn’t move away. He knows who it is. The trembling in his hands is not from fear.

 _I know you,_ his mind sighs at the man beside him. _You are not a threat. I know you._

The voice that answers is little more than a puff of hot air on the side of his face. "Charles," it purrs sweetly. _You don’t know me,_ the other mind crows. _I_ am _a threat. You are mine, just like this city. You don’t know me._

He has to marvel, just for a moment, at how much Erik can pack into a single word. A single touch. This is what makes him so dangerous. He is bigger than anyone else in the world. Vitality sparks in every gesture he makes. His will is indomitable: not only will he overcome, he will prosper.

Erik is open about himself like no other person on earth. His appreciation of Charles was clear the moment they met, and he’s never tried to hide it. He was honest when he said he wished he could find the happier path, and he was open about his resolution not to follow that one. That he was going to use whatever bloody means necessary to accomplish his bloody ends was always there, spoken in Erik’s plainest terms.

He never deceived Charles. Charles deceived himself. The rift between them was born from Charles’ own blindness.

How many people has that cost him now?

"Erik,” he replies stiffly. “Or are you still calling yourself Magneto?"

A second brush of air hits Charles' temple, warming him with Erik’s amusement. His side is burning with the heat pouring off Erik’s body; the man hadn’t bothered with a jacket when he left, his body left uncovered to radiate warmth freely into the cold evening air. He can feel Erik’s smile, the jut of his cheek proclaiming his good humor.

"Would you believe me if I said I'd missed you?" Erik rumbles, neatly sidestepping the question.

Charles shakes his head. He can’t afford to get sidetracked, but he can’t help but get pulled in. "Would you believe me if I said I was here just on business?"

Erik huffs but takes Charles by the arm and leads him up the stairs. That he is the reason Charles can no longer simply walk up them on his own goes unspoken. Erik bears his guilt over Charles’ injury as he bears few of his many sins; he takes the stairs slowly, slower even than Charles requires. The long moments they spend paused on each step give Erik time to rearrange him, pulling Charles closer against him each time. It isn’t comfortable, the stop-starting, but Charles lets him be.

How long ago was his last visit with Magneto?

_Five months, three weeks, two days._

The moment they reach the top, Erik tugs him around. Charles allows it only for the darkness of the empty street. Erik slides a hand down Charles’ back, his long fingers spreading wide. A shiver races them down, only to fade when it reaches the small of his back. Erik doesn’t stop until he reaches his goal: the tip of his fingers sinking into the lower curve of Charles’ cheek. Charles has to stretch unsteadily on his toes to help, but Erik gives no indication that he minds Charles grabbing his shirt harder than necessary. His palm fits exactly over the curve of Charles’ backside, and for a moment, Charles lets the situation slip away. Erik is unusually warm and quiet. His breath comes softly without a fight to hurry it; when he nuzzles lightly at Charles’ cheek, his nose is cold.

The quiet breaks when, with hardly a twitch of his lips to betray him, Erik gives his ass a pinch.

“Oi!”

Erik almost manages to hide his snort in a hum. If Charles had not witnessed firsthand Erik’s march to conquest, he would struggle to see how such a goof could possibly be the most dangerous man in the city.

As if summoned, his back twinges, and Charles has to return his heels to the ground. He can feel Erik’s hesitation in letting go and wants nothing more than to sag against but ultimately lets the break pass unencouraged. They pull apart carefully, Charles readying himself to get to the next part, only to startle out of himself at the sound of his name.

When he looks up, Erik’s face has contorted itself in frustration. It doesn’t stop him from ghosting the backs of his fingers over Charles’ face. They linger on his chin, the tip of Erik’s thumb reaching to brush his upper lip. It almost feels like an apology.

Charles tips his head forward, pressing a kiss to the callused pad.

They don’t linger, and when they step through the doorway, they go one before the other, not touching or acknowledging any of what came before.

Business as usual.

**×××**

 

It would be easy to forget what Erik's done, what he's become, if Charles let himself. They were friends for barely a week; thinking Erik somehow became as familiar to him as if he were a part of Charles' own body is ridiculous. Charles may know the fit of Erik's hands to his chest, but Erik isn’t the first person to do that. Charles may have the memory of spending an afternoon lazing in bed with Erik in a sleazy motel, long hours that saw the temperature drop from cold to frigid. He may still shudder at the care Erik took, slowly stretching him, licking him open and kissing his thighs. The way his legs hadn’t stopped shaking when the two of them finally collapsed, spent, Erik’s cock still hard where it was buried in Charles.

He remembers it all, but he could bury the memories. The sweet kisses Erik took from him, the possessive weight of his arm on Charles’ belly, the ghost of his smile as he nudged Charles awake at night for another round. All of that, Charles could excise with a scalpel made of wayward bullets.

Erik took Charles’ freedom from him; even now, with all the procedures and experiments medicine and money can provide, Charles can only move on his own in bursts which he largely spends toddling about unsteadily like a child. Every shuffling step reminds him of Erik's carelessness. His bloodlust. His single-minded, self-destructive need for vengeance against men who tore apart far bigger families in crueler ways than they broke Erik’s.

Charles could put that week behind him if he wanted. He simply doesn’t want to. Erik defies every attempt to label him. Charles tries to see him as a murderer, only to open the door at four a.m. and find Erik standing in the doorway, holding a child and asking Charles to have mercy. A good man, Erik kidnaps a lowly enforcer’s family to use as leverage. An enemy, Erik puts himself in danger to save Mystique. A friend, Erik turns on him.

Until Erik completely rids himself of the part that wants to be good, Charles won’t let go.

Hope is a terrible thing. It makes the kisses Erik steals burn longer, the shape of his fingers curled around Charles’ arm linger in his memory for days after Erik leaves, but Charles only clings harder. He can’t abandon the man Erik could be if only he let himself.

**×××**

 

They make their way through something resembling a kitchen into a room with a worn-looking sofa and too many chairs. Charles allows Erik to wave him toward the sofa, endures the sulky fussing with blankets and pillows without comment. It has nothing to do with Charles, but it rankles nonetheless. Charles isn’t a child or an invalid. He isn’t helpless when he’s in his chair, and he damn well isn’t now.

He tolerates the treatment nonetheless. He knows the reasons for it.

"So, Charles, what business brings you here?" Erik asks when he finally decides he’s done, dropping into a chair across opposite the sofa. His voice is heavy with all he's learned to leave unsaid.

"You know what.”

“Come now. You can say it aloud. There’s only me to hear.”

“I did notice a distinct lack of slack-jawed Neanderthals in the parlor,” Charles observes sourly. “I wouldn’t endure being wrapped up in your love nest if that weren’t the case.”

“Charles,” Erik warns.

“Erik,” Charles counters.

_“Charles.”_

He can almost hear the clock ticking down the seconds. _Tick-tock, Charles. Tick-tock._ The opportunities Cerebro gives them come with time restraints. This one in particular needs to be put to rest quickly. “Fine. I need your help."

The low light only makes Erik's grin sharper.

**×××**

 

Autumn in New York is as bitter as winter. Worse, even, some years. Winter is always cold and bleak, but autumn has the last flare of color. The brush stays bright just long enough to make the world seem colder when it falls to the ground and lies there in decay, leaving the trees’ skeletons bare.

"It looks like death," Erik said once. He was looking out the window when he said it, suddenly returned to the grave-faced man Charles and Mystique rescued from headhunters. They spent most of that day in bed, Erik fully dressed save his shoes, the two of them content just lying together while Mystique hunted down leads on who wanted Erik dead and why. Charles hummed his agreement, content to let Erik sulk until he wasn’t, and by the time he tugged at Erik’s belt loops, the bleak expression was gone, leaving the look of a man hungry for nothing but kisses.

In hindsight, Charles should have recognized the change for what it was. In hindsight, Erik hadn't been looking out the window but into his mind, his thoughts ossifying into plans. In hindsight, the idea of Erik trading vengeance for a life of peace and invisibility was never going to happen.

New York's dons made the same mistake Charles did. They either ignored Erik or treated him like the boy whose tear-streaked face was on the cover of a newspaper, a tragic figure to illustrate the latest mafia transgression.

That Charles, unlike the dons rotting in their caskets buried deep in the earth, is alive to shiver in the autumn gusts is cold comfort.

Charles, unlike the dons, has had time not just to realize his mistake but the breadth of it. He sees it now, how much a part of him Erik's rage has become. It hasn’t merely filled his blood or stained his bones; it’s hardened into his skin, keeping him safe from enemy and ally alike.

**×××**

 

“Oh, Charles,” Erik sighs in amusement, leaning back into his chair. “What have you gotten yourself into? I don’t imagine much is beyond your pet assassin.”

Charles narrows his eyes. “As you well know.”

Erik nods. Experience makes his smile crooked- Charles can attest to the strength of Mystique’s push kicks, and Erik caught one squarely when she discovered his betrayal. “As I well know. Back to my question- what is so far beyond your reach you’ve sought me out?”

“It’s complicated.” Erik’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t interrupt. “The short version is one of the families isn’t sticking to your rules. Usually we would just get the girl back to her parents, neutralize the guilty party, and call it a day. Unfortunately, human trafficking is a special kind of kidnapping. Even if we get this one out safe, the mafia family will remain intact and will then be aware of Mystique, if not both of us. They’ll want compensation. We can’t risk that kind of attention.” This will be unfair, even cruel, but they’ve never been especially good to each other. Here, at least, Charles can hope for some good to come of the cruelty. “More families ripped apart, Erik. We can’t stop it.”

“But I can,” Erik finishes. He looks more contemplative than angry, which is unsettling. Charles had expected rage, both at the practice and at being defied. Erik couldn’t- He wouldn’t condone this. Charles knows he wouldn’t. But the Erik he knows isn’t a quiet man. His Erik is volatile; this side is new and worrisome. “It must be one of the larger families, if you can’t take them out yourselves- don’t argue, Charles. I know you were behind the fall of the Maniscalcos.”

He’s right, of course. Erik has a sixth sense when it comes to sensing blood in the water. Whose it is, who spilled it, how long it’s been there. When fresh blood is about to be spilled.

“Does that mean you’ll help?”

“It means I’ll consider it.”

“Don’t play with me.” Charles draws himself up. He has his own rage. “This is serious.”

Erik throws him an ugly look. “I recognize that. Do you? This will require more than just pulling some strings. And if you’re wrong-”

“I’m not.”

“But if you are, it could endanger far more lives.”

If Erik were intending to say no, he would have done so already. That he hasn’t means he wants to say yes, but he’s waiting for something. It’s sick. Charles is taking the most delicate, most gruesome parts of Erik’s memory and using them against him; Erik is playing games with human lives. This is why he avoids coming to this place. The two of them could have made a great team, and Charles wishes more than anything that were the case- or that he wouldn’t have to deal with Erik at all.

But the numbers must come first. Charles learned that the hard way. Nothing can be allowed to compromise Hank’s work.

Dealing with the king of the underbelly is not inherently detrimental to the numbers. Erik has helped them before, and he will this time. Charles is certain of it. He just has to figure out what Erik wants.

Sighing, Charles gives in. “Name your price.”

“I think I’d rather you made me an offer.”

“Pick, or I leave, and your city will see the bloodiest gang war in history.”

Erik leans forward, his teeth catching the light as his smile stretches wide. He obviously doubts Charles would go through with it. That’s his failing- Charles may want to think Erik is better than he is, but Erik truly believes Charles is too good to dirty his hands. If he only knew what Charles has done.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You stay and play a game of chess with me tonight. No rushing it. No intentionally losing. In return, I will personally pay a visit to the family.”

“Tomorrow,” Charles rushes to add as much to bind Erik to the timeline as to cover his surprise. “You have to speak to them tomorrow. First thing. Before nine o’clock.”

For a moment, Erik only stares at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Then his expression melts into a smirk. “That, my friend, will cost you a second game.”

 

**×××**

 

It was an accident. Charles knows it. Erik knows it. The man who shot Charles knows it.

That’s what Charles tells himself whenever he starts to wonder. The person who fired the shot that nearly killed him is alive and rotting in a prison somewhere. Enough time has passed that Charles doesn’t hate him; it wasn’t his fault the scourge of NYPD got overconfident and picked somewhere too public to take Charles to lunch. Erik wouldn’t have killed the poor sod. He wouldn’t have. Not when Charles didn’t die.

If Erik had killed the man, he would have had to kill himself as well.

**×××**

 

Erik has a beautiful chess set. A rich man’s chess set: each pierce carved by an artisan’s hand, white and red pieces shaped from no doubt illicit types of wood. If pressed, Charles suspects Erik would tell him it was repurposed. He’d be telling the truth, too. Erik’s relationship with money is a complicated one, a whiplash-inducing back and forth between spite and pleasure.

It’s a bit funny, the way they seem to be living each other’s lives in reverse. Anonymous boy turns into a notorious, rich despot. Son of a tycoon turns into an anonymous vigilante. An anonymous vigilante with quite a fortune amassed, but Charles is hardly using it for himself. The quality of his suit ought to speak to that.

Erik’s gorgeous, hand-carved set is laid out on the table next to Charles. Charles has been studying it for the last fifteen minutes while he’s waited for Erik, who got up and hurried out without an explanation after extracting his price, to return.

 _What the hell is he doing?_ Charles thinks petulantly. _He made all that fuss about getting his games, only to run off._

Typical.

Charles is absolutely vindicated in not being a well-mannered guest any longer. Swinging his legs up takes more effort than he’d expected, but it’s worth it to drop them onto the sofa. The stretch of his spine feels painfully exquisite, the sofa’s arm disgustingly pleasant where it cradles his neck. It’s no difficulty at all to grab the blanket off the back of the sofa and drape it over himself. If Erik wants his games, he’s going to have to hurry up.

 

**×××**

 

When the Machine gave them Erik’s number, Charles and Mystique were sure he was going to be the victim. The number was the social belonging to Erik Lehnsherr, a janitor whose greatest sins were a slightly unhealthy level of paranoia and inclination toward survivalism. No one else had been caught using the number. There were no anomalies Charles could find. Mystique hadn’t been especially taken by him, but she hadn’t thought he was an outright danger.

How wrong they’d been.

 

**×××**

 

“Charles?”

“Mmph.”

Erik hits the sofa with a sharp huff. Charles doesn’t get the chance to protest the disruption; he’s too busy fighting for control of the blanket. Erik is bigger and not muzzy with sleep, but Charles has the low ground. He twists the blanket around himself, tucking it under his body and weaving it around his arm. Erik catches onto the tactic quickly, and it’s hardly any time at all before Erik has given up yanking and switched to getting his hands under it, attempting to pry it off by using himself as a wedge. Charles puts up a weak struggle, but the battle’s lost. By the time Erik’s head pokes up, his hair is mussed and his eyes bright. They’re both laughing and winded from the struggle, Erik barely panting from the exertion while Charles gasps for breath.

Tugging the blanket down and away from Charles’ face, Erik declares victoriously, “Not asleep, then.”

“Well spotted,” Charles wheezes. “You should know ahead of time that it’s been a while since I played. I don’t suppose you’re going to take it easy on me.”

Erik’s face shutters for a moment, and his smile is crooked as he replies, “No, I don’t think I will.”

**×××**

 

Charles is selfish. He doesn’t want Erik to put away the cloak and dagger for the sakes of the people he hurts. Not even for the innocent ones who get caught in the crossfire.

He wants Erik to stop because he’s scared one day Erik won’t be able to protect himself. His number will come up too late for them to help him. Charles and Mystique will get there in time to see them wrap him in a body bag, and that will be the end of them.

Worse, Erik might do as he’s been threatening and crush the part of him Charles wants to hold close. That boy he saw in the paper, weeping at his mother’s grave, isn’t gone. He’s alive in Erik yet, alone with but unbeaten by Erik’s adult rage.

 

**×××**

 

The first game is more exercise in frustration than strategy. Erik doesn’t actually start to play until the end- he contents himself with mirroring Charles’ moves, going so far with it as to let Charles have the first attack. After that, Erik makes his own moves, but they’re scattered. He plays like an impatient amateur, moving aggressively just to move rather than to beat Charles.

It’s a waste of time, but Charles can’t hurry Erik more than he already has.

“Your game is off,” he observes as he tips Erik’s king over. “What’s bothering you, my friend?”

Erik quirks a brow but says nothing, merely rights his piece and begins resetting the board.

They start the next game without a break, and this time, Erik doesn’t play coyly. He begins aggressively, pursues Charles relentlessly. He falls for none of Charles’ bluffs, refuses to be caught in any traps. Piece by piece, he clears Charles’ defenses, deliberately sacrificing pieces to Charles’ queen before taking her, too. When only Charles’ king remains, that is when Erik closes in on him and forces him into check, then mate.

Charles stares at his rolling king for a long moment.

“I don’t understand you,” he says to the board. His watch says two. “What was the point?”

“You don’t mean our games.”

“The chess ones, no.”

Erik lets out a heavy breath. “Come to bed, Charles.”

Without knowing why, without caring why, Charles does.

 

**×××**

 

If it came down to it, Charles isn’t sure he could put Erik down if he did become the villain he plays at.

 

**×××**

 

Charles wakes up somewhere in the middle of the night to something cold on his neck.

“Darling, I’m sleeping,” he grumbles, shoving weakly at Erik.

“Mm,” Erik replies, undeterred. “Why?”

Charles can’t help it. He chuckles. Erik smiles against his neck, pulls his grip around him tight. They’ve wound up spooned on their sides under the blanket Erik had pulled off him earlier. Charles’ backside is cradled snugly against Erik’s hips, his head pillowed on Erik’s arm. Erik isn’t much more awake than Charles; like this, he’s a warm, sleepy weight.

The thick length prodding at his backside is nice; even nicer is the low moan Erik lets out when Charles arches into him.

Hiding his face with his arm, lest Erik take a peek and see how hard Charles is fighting the need to make noise himself, Charles grumbles, “You’re in your thirties. How is it you still get hard like this?”

“Missed you,” Erik pants, pushing forward to rut harder against him. “Fuck, Charles, what did you do?” He gives an especially hard thrust. “You’re in my head all the time. I dream about you. I don’t want to take anyone else to bed. Your perfect ass, your face, your lips- Fuck! The way you look when you suck my cock. Wherever I go, you follow me.”

Erik isn’t alone in that. Charles, when he has the time for it, can’t get off without his mind conjuring up Erik. The sinuous way he shimmies out of his clothes. The way he perks up adorably when Charles reaches out for him. His love of rimming. His shudder of pleasure at being praised. The hitch in his voice right before he comes.

“I want you more than anyone else.” He nips at Charles’ neck, pulling a moan from him. The drag of Erik’s tongue moves beyond the bite and slides roughly toward Charles’ ear, where he nips at him again. “Sometimes I think I’ve gotten over you. Then you appear on my doorstep, come to plead for my help. Because you need me, Charles. You hate what I do, but still, you come back to me.”

Charles doesn’t know what to say- it’s hard to focus beyond the smoky curl of Erik’s voice in his ear, the hand jerking Charles through his boxers- but Erik isn’t done.

“Are you going to leave me, Charles? Do you think about finding someone to take my place?” Erik rolls them over, a little too roughly for Charles’ back, but Charles doesn’t complain. It’s only a twinge, there and gone, dispelled by the force of Erik’s want. It’s easy to move with the rhythm Erik starts. “Will you look for another man willing to do what you ask? Another cock to fill you up, stretch you better than you can on your own? Or are you content with this- coming to me when you want, then leaving when you’re tired of me? I don’t think you are, Charles. You’ll keep sneaking into my bed, selling yourself for my help until you find another rough man to help that assassin you keep on the leash.”

“Don’t-”

Erik sighs. “No business talk when I get you off. I remember.” He coughs, the moment slipping away but not lost. “You’re impossible. I want you too much. Every time you leave me, it’s harder to let you go. Would you let me keep you? Just for a little while. A month? Two or three at the most. You’d look so good in cuffs...”

Erik says the last with that tell-tale whine, and Charles, primed as he is, spills in his shorts with only Erik rubbing off on his arse and the cushion to push into. Everything blazes white for a hot moment, where Charles is only distantly aware of hearing himself shout. Moments later, when Charles is just settling back into his body, Erik follows, mashing the side of his face against the back of Charles’ neck. His grip goes tight enough to bruise, and Charles finds himself shoved almost up onto his knees from the force of the last of his thrusts.

God, it’s good not be treated delicately.

Eventually Erik lets them sink down flat against the sofa. He’s shaking a little, but it doesn’t stop him from finding his way to Charles’ mouth and making a solid effort at a kiss. Even he has to admit a lost cause, though, and he heaves himself most of the way off Charles with a heavy sigh. They lie together like that for long enough that Charles realizes Erik is burrowing in for the night. It’s hard to tell, sleepy as he is, but Erik has a certain way of curling up that says he isn’t planning on getting up until the sun does. Charles almost positive this is it. He’s unspeakably fond of the habit, and rather than risk ruining it, even for cleanup, he lets himself drift off.

 

**×××**

 

When Charles next wakes up, his body is sore in the nicest way and sticky in the worst, and Erik is sitting up in bed beside him.

There are more blankets tucked around them, all soft and luxurious where they touch his skin. It takes him a moment to realize it, tired as he is, but Erik has made him the perfect nest. It’s comfortable and warm and quiet, the walls of Erik’s home well insulated against the noise of the rousing city. Charles hasn’t woken up in a nicer way in a long time. He’s gotten off in a way that’s more rewarding than any quick stripping in the shower, and he’s got the city’s most wanted man crunching his way through breakfast- toast, Charles notes wearily. Dry, flaky toast.

Charles decided when this first became an option that the Numbers will be best served if Erik is in a good mood. If getting him in one also gets Charles an orgasm or three and a number of mortifying hickeys that will garner scowls from Mystique, then so be it. Charles is made of flesh and mind; he likes hands on his body and dirty promises in his ear as much as the next man.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where you got your information,” Erik asks idly.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Yes, yes, hello again since last night. Will you tell me or not?”

Stretching, Charles wriggles in place. His spine makes a series of satisfying pops; it feels incredible, despite the flare of pain in his back and the tickle of numbness down his legs. The best part by far is the way Erik’s eyes flicker from the newspaper he’s been pretending to read down to Charles’ arse.

“That is the nicest no anyone has ever given me.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“And you’re terrible at keeping secrets.” Shaking out the paper, Erik folds it up and sets it aside. “I have to get ready now if I’m going to make your time table.” He hesitates, eyes flicking between Charles and the door. “You could stay here if you wanted, wait for me to return. We could pick up where we left off.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I do. That doesn’t mean I can’t ask.”

“Just as I can’t help but ask if you’ll stop this needless bloodshed,” Charles counters lightly. He doesn’t want to hurt Erik; there is a foolish part of him that hopes one day Erik will have changed his mind.

When he shakes his head, Erik’s expression is as tight as it’s ever been. He takes Charles’ hand in his gently. His thumbs trace the veins down the back lightly.

“You never did tell me why you saved me.”

Disconcerted- Erik is doing this on purpose- Charles struggles to recall what Erik means. When he does, he wishes he hadn’t. “I have told you,” he scolds. “You just don’t like the answer.”

“You could have let them take me,” Erik says softly. “Not just that first time. I have benefited from your invisible friend as often as I have given you my help. You know what I do. You know what my people do. If preventing bloodshed is your goal, you could as easily stay silent.”

“I’ve thought about that.”

“And?”

Charles sighs. “And you are what you say you are: a necessary evil. The families stay in line, and the gang wars don’t escalate like they would without you.”

“That’s all?” Erik presses.

“Don’t ask me to say it. You know how I feel about you.”

“And if I wonder sometimes whether you really will find another to take my place?” Erik lets Charles’ hand drop. “Don’t think I don’t watch over you on my own, Charles. There are others who come into your life just as I did, but they walk the path you set them on. A path I will never walk, not even when I wish I did.”

Heart pounding, Charles puts a hand on Erik’s chest. “Mystique says that’s why I come back to you. You’re the one who made his own way.”

“Mystique is a wise woman.”

“She reads the horoscopes and dresses accordingly.”

“We all have our flaws.”

Charles shakes his head, amused despite himself. “You need to get going, and so do I, or we’ll both have to answer to her.” At Erik’s thoughtful expression, Charles reminds him of his sister’s competency with heavy artillery.

Not that Erik knows she’s Charles’ sister.

With a quick kiss, Erik gets to his feet, and within two steps, it’s Magneto sweeping out.

Charles makes a less impressive exit in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, but no one is there to see him.

 

**×××**

 

Mystique frowns at him over a Starbucks cup. “You slept with him.”

Dressed impeccably in fresh clothes, fully dry from his shower, and belly full of perfectly roasted coffee, Charles bears no resemblance to someone in the middle of a morning after.

“You don’t wince when you limp after you get it,” she explains when Charles fails to comment.

Charles feels his nose wrinkle. “That’s disgusting. You’re not supposed to know that.”

“I can’t believe you slept with him.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I can, but I don’t want to. You did get him to promise to look into it, right?”

Charles grins sharply at her. “I did more than that.”

“And the cost?”

“Taken care of.”

She doesn’t like it, but Mystique accepts that Charles isn’t completely incompetent. Handling Erik is something he has gotten better at over time. His success rate about equals his loss now.

His phone rings before the conversation can get any more awkward, and it’s Mr. Pryde calling to thank Charles for all he and Mystique have done but he’s going after his daughter now. Charles can’t talk him out of it, though he tries as best he can.

Sighing, he snaps it shut. “Looks like you get to see some action this time,” he tells an eager Mystique. “Get the big guns, and let me know what kind of van I’ll be courting death in today.”

“SUV!” Mystique shouts as he walks away. “We’re getting an SUV this time!”

 

**×××**

 

They don’t need the SUV. One of Erik’s people is waiting for them by the time they get there. One red-skinned arm is hanging out the driver’s window of a white van, and when they walk over, a familiar face pokes out.

“He is in the back,” Azazel informs them with a jerk of his head. “He sleeps, but the girl is with him.”

Mr. Pryde is unconscious and Azazel doesn’t want to deal with Charles scolding him, more like. The man is almost as bad as Erik when it comes to violence- there’s very little that can’t be solved with a sucker punch or a little show of strength.

Azazel gives Charles a once-over, running his eyes deliberately over Charles’ ballistic vest and SWAT helmet, and quirks his lips. For him, it may as well be a howl of laughter.

“Looking good,” he says drily. “Magneto is talking with the family now. He said you should stay here.”

By which Azazel means the Erik inside is not the Erik Charles wants to see. It’s a strange sort of curtesy but one Charles appreciates.

Mystique fetches the family and emerges with the father thrown over one shoulder and the daughter cuddled under her arm. “We got them. Let’s go.”

“Just a moment.” Charles waves her on. Turning back to Azazel, he ignores the man’s warning look and takes a step closer. “Azazel, I’d like you to get a message back to Magneto.”

“So I am messenger now?”

“Need I remind you what happened last time you ignored a message from me to your boss?” Going by the change in expression, Charles assumes not. “Tell him… Tell him I did it because everyone is relevant. He’ll understand.”

Charles walks away, but not before he hears Azazel mutter, “He better.”

Mystique is waiting for him in the car, both Prydes sat shaking and mostly conscious in the back. She barely waits for him to climb in before she takes her foot off the brake and they’re on their way back to the distraught Mrs. Pryde.

“Job done?” she asks when the family finally climbs out and the door slams behind them.

Charles nods. “Job done.”

“Magneto won’t let this go without blood.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I said I know,” he snaps. Sighing, he scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long few days.”

They both know that isn’t it. Long is the only type of day they have now. Long and bloody. This one was worse than the one before, but it wasn’t the worst. Cerebro will give them another, darker number to protect- or to stop. Charles can only hope Erik is the worst of their mistakes.

Hank’s hope got him killed. Charles can only use Cerebro and do his best not to join his friend just yet.

“Magneto will be fine.”

Twisting, Charles turns to his partner. “Are you… comforting me?”

Mystique’s hands tighten on the wheel. “I don’t trust him,” she confesses, if you can confess something everyone already knows, “but he’s useful. And I know you like him.” She flips her hair. “You’re useless when you pine, you know.”

Charles does know, but it brings a smile to his face to hear her say it anyway. It lets him pretend, just for a while, that he and the little girl who broke into his kitchen didn’t spend years fighting each other. They aren’t on a suicide mission, trying to stop the woes of an entire city. He didn’t fall in love with a murderer. It’s a nice place to be, and Charles happily floats in it the entire drive back.


End file.
